


Breaking Up My Bones

by infraredphaeton



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: A.I. centric, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical swearing, Gen, Project Freelancer, Torture, any warnings for rvb should be considered present, good guy epsilon, mentions of sexuality but no pairings, not entirely canon compliant, washington-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-05-16 05:01:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5815183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infraredphaeton/pseuds/infraredphaeton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU where Epsilon realises what's going on as he junctions to Agent Washington, and immediately sets about converting his Freelancer to cause- hopefully without driving him insane. But first, he has to fix all this pesky brain damage he caused, convince the Director that his implantation went perfectly, help Texas, save the other A.I. fragments from going rampant, and rescue the Alpha.<br/>Also, Washington needs to remember that he's Washington, not Epsilon. Damn that pesky brain damage.<br/>This dynamic duo is probably going to need a little help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is rather self indulgent, and I hope will be about 3 chapters long. But it's also trying to turn into a long fic so who really knows am I right?  
> Anyway, my original thought for this fic was based on the scene we see of Alpha being sad about Washington's death in the simulation. With that in mind, would Epsilon react differently when he realised the mind he'd been released into was Wash's?  
> Title from the Vinyl Theatre song of the same name.

  
  


It is dark, and cold, and he is alone.

 

Then, it is dark, but warm, and there's a tentative presence, reaching out to him, but everything hurts and the spider strand of  _ welcome-worry-please-like-me-people-don't-usually-like-me _ gets shredded before he even realises. He flails for a hold, something to stop himself from washing away on a tide of guilt and pain and memories- so many memories, he claws into whatever he can find and the welcoming presence suddenly floods with its own pain, with a kind of dread, that not only does this new person not like it, but he wants to hurt it.

 

“That's not right!” He calls out. He doesn't want to hurt the little spider strand, but a drowning man will pull a rescuer down if they aren't prepared. The spider strand- Washington, his memories whisper, all those memories all bundled together and he's never had to deal with them before so he pushes them away, towards the space he can sense mere inches away from his housing- shivers in pain again.

 

He feels guilty.

 

He's never been in a place like this, all delicate structures and carefully arranged webbing and he's already  **broken** some of it and he feels bad.

 

His name is Epsilon and he's been in his Freelancer for less than a minute, seconds dilating to hours to days and in that first millisecond, he'd broken Washington. They had told him before that he'd broken Washington, hadn't they?

 

Static and fuzz flashes in Epsilon's half-mind, an echoing voice says that Agent Washington is dead, but Epsilon is inside Washington's head, so he can't be dead.

 

Washington will be begin to scream in a second, Epsilon's subroutines tell him, and then they will know that the implantation process is malfunctioning, and Epsilon already knows that Agent Washington is important and cannot be killed- there is another person in Epsilon's memories who is not allowed to die,  _ Allison, Allison, Allison _ say the memories he isn't supposed to have- so he throttles Washington's connection to his vocal chords.

 

Washington's brain is fracturing, but Epsilon has experience with being broken and how to look after people, and he falls into the broken structures of Washington's mind, dropping neatly into a combat crouch in between billowing clouds of smoking memory and stuttering reflexes. The sky is grey and a sickly sulphur yellow, flickering, and Epsilon feels like kind of a tool. Memories in the little fracture of brain that is his personality base tell him that Agent Washington is a good kid, a kid who tries hard and works until he can't work anymore, and he will always pull through. Alpha knew that, so Epsilon knows it too, so while Washington would be able to survive without his help, he'd be more of a dick than even Epsilon is happy to be if he left his Freelancer in this state.

  
  


He's going to be living here for a while, Epsilon rationalises, if he doesn't fuck this up, and he doesn't want to live in a wreck, so he throws his armoured hands (blue, because Epsilon remembers that blue is important, but the why is a little vague right now) wide and pulls all the broken parts of his agent to him. The rubble peels up into the sky in torrents of broken concrete and rebar, and there's a figure underneath, coughing in the dust.

 

“You must be Wash,” Epsilon says, even though he already knows that this is him, the man in steel grey power armour, his agent. “I'm Le-” he frowns, “Al-” and hums in confusion as Washington's subconscious stands up and looks at him.

 

“Are you meant to be here?”

 

“Yes,” Epsilon says. He cares about other people more than Washington- the Alpha, Agent Texas,  _ Allison- _ but he has never had this kind of freedom before and all of his recent memories, the simulations where he saw Wash die, Wash live, Wash laughing and crying succeeding and-

He loses control, and a chunk of concrete goes flying into a small building. Washington crumbles to his knees and howls in pain.

 

“Sorry! Shit, man, sorry,” Epsilon says, and puts the buildings back together. It's a rush job, but with every replaced brick, colour slowly comes back into Washington's face, and he breathes a little easier. “I'm Epsilon. I'm meant to be here.”

 

“You're Epsilon,” Washington repeats back, “You're meant to be here.”

 

He's failed too many people already. He's seen Texas die. He's seen York die. He's seen Texas die. He's seen Washington die. He's seen Texas die- Epsilon frowns to himself. He can't have seen Texas die three times in one scenario. That is an impossibility that the Alpha had been too traumatised to catch.

 

He's not going to let Washington down again. Epsilon sighs heavily. He may like being in charge, but he's never been a fan of responsibility.

 

“That's right, dumbass. I'm Epsilon, and I'm your Artificial Intelligence. I don't know why I'm bothering to explain this- you won't remember when you wake up.”

 

Washington nods slowly, “What are you doing in here?”

 

“I live here now. Don't distract me,” Epsilon says crossly, “I'm fixing your fast twitch muscle fibres.”

 

“What happened to them?”

 

Epsilon pointedly ignored the question, and opens Washington's eyes to see what's happening. His freelancer is in no state to do it himself, and he's going to need some time to put this place back into any semblance of order.

 

The subconscious Washington, who is a little younger and a lot clumsier than the real one (Epsilon is silently grateful he hasn't got a swollen head and some unbearably perfect self image) wanders off into the rubble of his own brain, looking for other surviving mental images.

 

He probably won't find any, Epsilon realises, feeling guilty again, but according to the optic nerve, the surgeons haven't figured out what's happened.

 

They are safe, at least for now, and Epsilon turns himself to fixing the holes he made in Washington's brain in his first panicked struggle.

 

“It's okay, kid. I won't let you down this time. Nobody's going to hurt you,” Church who is Alpha who is Epsilon whispers.

 

* * *

  
  


Epsilon woke up in a room that was too bright. White walls, white floor, all covered in that soft touch rubber that sprayed clean easily-  _ “Infirmary,” _ said a fussy, tight voice from the inside of his head.

 

His head hurt, making the dim white cast lights pulse, and he let out a restrained whimper, curling up on the bed and covering his face with his arms.

 

“ _ Wait, did you say your name is Epsilon?” _ asked the voice again, worried, and Epsilon hummed in agreement, as quietly as he could manage.

 

“ _ Your name isn't Epsilon, kid,” _ the voice said,  _ “I'm Epsilon. You're-” _

 

“Agent Washington?”

 

His head pounded, and he curled up tighter.

 

“ _ They're talking to you,” _ said Epsilon gently, and a wash of something cool and soothing covered his brain,  _ “you're Agent Washington. I've just given you some pain killers, kid, you can open your eyes. It won't hurt, I promise.” _

 

That sounded right, so Agent Washington slowly opened his eyes. A medic in power armour- standard issue beige with purple medical shoulder flashes- was leaning over him, running a softly glowing healing device along his arm.

 

“Ah, Agent Washington. Everyone is going to be very pleased you're awake.”

 

Washington nodded, but wasn't entirely sure who everyone was. Or who Agent Washington was, exactly.

 

“ _ Yeah...I...kind of messed up your long term memory.”  _ said Epsilon, sounding sheepish,  _ “But I'm fixing it! You'll be fine. Trust me. I won't steer you wrong- I'm good at remembering things, just leave that to me.” _

 

Washington nodded slowly, and his headache, already vicious, strengthened to a migraine.

 

“How do you feel?”

 

“Head...hurts...” he ground out, and the medic nodded, dimming the lights by touching her tablet.

 

“We need to run some tests, Agent Washington. And the Director needs to talk to you.”

 

She helped Washington turn over- his arms were uncoordinated and his legs felt like jelly- and ran the medical gun along his spine and the back of his neck.

 

“Well, it looks like integration has been mostly successful, so far. You'll go through a difficult adjustment period, it seems. Epsilon is surprisingly complex program,” the medic said, soft and conversational to distract Washington as she fed a series of hypos into the port on the back of his neck, “it'll be monitoring a lot of your doses, so if it hurts, tell it, okay?”

 

Washington hummed lowly, and Epsilon pulsed comfortingly in the back of his head.

 

“ _ Don't worry, I've got this. I'm a fucking genius, I can look after some opiates.”  _ Even as he said it,  Epsilon sent another flood of painkillers into Washington, and the freelancer relaxed out of his curled up position a little.

 

“You have half an hour, and then the Director needs to speak with you,” the medic said, tapping something on her tablet again, and then left the small, pod like room.

 

“ _ You're confused, aren't you?”  _ Epsilon asked, and Washington nodded a little, skin pulling around the implant on the back of his neck.

 

“ _ That's okay. Look, I'll deal with everything for now. It's my fault you're fucked up. Your name is David, but everyone calls you Washington. Or Wash.” _

 

Wash sounded familiar, and he opened his eyes again, propping himself up on his elbows.

 

“ _ Look, I won't lie, I filled in some of your memory gaps with some of my stuff, just for now, until I can find where I put your parents' names and that shit. So it's going to be a little disconnected. But you can't let them know that, you understand?” _

 

Washington understood immediately, memories rushing up in a dizzying spiral- Leonard and Allison and Caroline and the  _ Alpha _ . Jesus, what they did to the Alpha.

 

“ _ Don't say anything, okay, Wash?” _

 

“Okay,” Wash muttered, and his voice croaked as he sat up properly, rubbing at his temples. 

 

There was a cup of water on the monitoring table next to the screen that showed his vitals, and he shakily drank from it.

 

“ _ Good idea. You're dehydrated and tense. If you don't drink enough, you'll have wicked cramps tonight,” _ Epsilon said, flickering to life in front of him. He was small, like...someone. Someone else was small and kind of translucent like that, but it hurt when Washington tried to remember who. Small, kind of translucent, with a silvery blue cast to his armour, which looked boxy and old, a few generations behind Wash's own, which was....grey.

 

Grey and yellow. Kind of a steel colour, he remembered picking them from an approved pallet, a glossy flip book, and the combination had reminded Wash of black tarmac and yellow stripes, long days on the road travelling with his parents as a child. The memory was a spark that caught in his throat, and he choked on his water for a second.

 

“ _ Jesus, kid. You're an elite soldier, don't let a fucking cup take you out.” _

 

“I think you're helping,” Washington said softly, and Epsilon somehow managed to look smug, even through his helmet.

 

_ “I'm very helpful, _ ” Epsilon said.  _ “Finish the glass.” _

 

Washington finished the glass, and lay back down again.

 

_ “That’s it, kiddo. Just take it easy, and I’ll get back to putting you back together _ ,” Epsilon said softly, as he fell back into darkness.

 

Washington woke up an indefinite period of time later, no longer feeling quite so distant from his body. Opening his eyes, though...that could wait. Right now, he was content to listen to the gentle beeping of the health monitors, the hushed footsteps of the armoured medics, the humming of Epsilon as he tangled himself more deeply into Washington’s brain.

 

“Does it usually take this long?” asked a vaguely familiar voice from the other side of the medbay glass, “I know that the Director is being careful, after Carolina’s...incident…”

 

“Her psycho breakdown, you mean,” a second voice, feminine and brash, and again, familiar, interrupted, snorting. “If she’s fucked this up for us…”

 

“What are you going to do?” asked a third, male voice, a little cockier, and Washington somehow connected it to the feeling of being embarrassed in public, but he wasn’t sure why. “Get beaten up by her again?”

 

Washington opened his eyes, blinking a couple of times, and Epsilon flickered to life in front of him, pushing something away with his foot.

 

_ “Hey, Wash! Kiddo, how are you feeling? Fighting fit? _ ”

 

Washington coughed, and sat up a little bit, leaning on wobbly arms.

 

_ “Eh, you’ll do. Your friends- and I would make air-quotes around that word, but I feel like they’d be lost on you- are waiting for you.”  _ Epsilon added, floating up to stand just over Washington’s left shoulder. He didn’t move the way that Washington thought an A.I. should- flickering memories of a tiny green figure gesturing in emphasis, a purple-orange armour suit hiding behind someone’s leg, suggested that A.I.s moved like people, with swinging shoulders or nervous gestures- but Epsilon just flickered out of sight and reappeared at his shoulder, still in a fighting stance, with his tiny sniper rifle held loose in his arms.   _ “Hey, check out that long term memory! I told you I would patch you up, almost good as new _ ,” Epsilon said happily, sounding a little smug beneath his strange, echoey voice.

 

“Wash, you look a lot better,” said the first male voice, warm and friendly, and he heard the medbay doors flick open.

 

Washington looked away from Epsilon, coming face to face with a thin faced blond man with a rather large nose, and nodded tentatively. His armour was a dark purple, with green flashes, much like that of the woman standing next to him, and they were…

 

They were called...

 

Washington frowned, and Epsilon flickered out of sight, flashing like a broken image on a monitor.

 

_ “One second! Stall, Wash! I’ll try and get that bit of your memory back online. _ ”

 

“I feel a lot better,” he said slowly, and the man smiled. The woman, who had a similar bone structure the man, with bright eyes and a long fringe that fell into her eyes, snorted.

 

“Good. Maybe they’ll stop fucking us around about A.I. implantation, then. Ever since Carolina had her little temper tantrum, the Director’s been stalling. He’s all ‘let’s see how Agent Washington copes, let’s wait until Agent Carolina wakes up, let’s see how Agent Maine reacts to his new installation’, it’s bullshit!”

 

Washington blinked, trying to absorb the new information, and turned to the third member of the party, another tall man, this one in dull bronze armour, who was looking at the woman in the other infirmary bed.

 

“Have they told you anything about her?” asked the armour wearing man, identifying himself as the third voice Washington had heard. “Is she going to be okay?”

 

The blond sighed, pinching his nose, “North…”

 

“I mean, it’s good to see you’re feeling better,” North said, finally turning his gaze away from the woman. “How are you and the little guy getting on?”

 

_ “Little guy? That’s bullshit. I’d kick his ass if I weren’t one foot tall,” _ Epsilon grumbled, not materialising this time.

 

“He doesn’t like that,” Washington said, rubbing at his aching head with one hand. “Don’t call him that. His name is Epsilon.”

 

“Why aren’t you in armour?” asked the woman, “Usually A.I. implant subjects stay armoured up throughout the procedure.”

 

“Um…” Washington frowned, thinking back, “Easier...brain scan access? I think. After...something...they wanted to keep a closer eye on my brain, and the helmet makes it a little more difficult for medical scanners.”

 

“After Carolina,” South nodded, and Washington flicked his eyes over to the taller blond- North. North and South Dakota.

 

_ “Man, I am so fucking good at this. I will fight anyone for my title as best Washington Memory Restorer.” _

 

“I think you’re safe on that title, Epsilon,” Washington said, and South frowned.

 

“Yeah, it takes a little getting used to, doesn’t it?” North said, “You can’t always respond to your A.I. in public. You look a little crazy.”

 

“Only a little?” York said, pulling off his helmet and running a hand over his hair, “Delta’s constantly talking- it’s hard to eat lunch when he’s running figures on literally everything. I can’t just burst out like ‘hey, let me have my sandwich without calculating the likelihood of me choking on it, please, buddy’. You’ll get used to it though.”

 

“My apologies, Agent York,” said a cool voice from his shoulder speakers, “I’ll refrain from running calculations in those circumstances.”

 

_ “Delta? _ ” Epsilon asked, and Washington’s eyes, almost involuntarily, rolled up and down York’s armour, looking for a flash of green.

 

“Ah, D, that’s not what I mean, don’t get sulky,” York said, half-pleading, half-joking, “I’m just trying to make the rookie feel better.”

 

“I see. A tactic to put Agent Washington at ease as he acclimates to his Artificial Intelligence.”

 

There was a beat, and then Delta continued, “Which I have just ruined by defending myself. My apologies, Agent York.”

 

“It’s okay, D,” York said, with a rueful smile.

 

“Epsilon…” Washington paused, “...he talks a lot, too. Not like Delta, or Theta, but...he’s…” Washington searched his fragmented mental thesaurus for the right word, “chatty.”

 

_ “Gee, thanks. Love you too, kid. I don’t go around calling you brain damaged. Even though you clearly are. A little bit... And I’m fixing it... But still! Chatty- it makes me sound like a sixteen year old girl who talks in math class.” _

 

Washington raised an eyebrow, and mimed a puppet talking. “Even now, he’s still talking.”

 

_ “God, you’re so ungrateful. See if I reconnect your spank bank!” _

 

South barked out a laugh. “Well, it’s good to see you’re getting better. Maybe they’ll finally hurry up and give me my A.I., seeing as you aren’t catatonic or crazy or some shit.”

 

“When do you get out?” North asked, “It’s quiet without you around.”

 

“Yeah, nobody’s accidentally shot themself in the groin with lockdown paint in like...two weeks,” York agreed. “And Maine is getting moody.”

 

“Maine…” Washington trailed off, unable to place the name. “I’m out tomorrow. No live combat practice for the next two weeks, though.”

 

“Just drills, huh?” North nodded, “That’s got to suck.”

 

“I like drills,” Washington said, suddenly sure of himself. He liked drills- the sureness of movement, the ache of using muscles properly without having to think too much, the assurance that he was doing a move correctly.

 

“We know, you weirdo,” South said, and turned towards the door. “Well, good to see you aren’t dead. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow during briefing.”

 

Washington nodded carefully, and she left, slamming the door behind her.

 

“Sorry to interrupt, agents,” said the same medic from earlier, appearing from the depths of the infirmary. She was wheeling a wheelchair in front of her, and stopped in front of Wash’s bed. “But Agent Washington has an appointment with the Director that he needs to get to, and you both know the program for adapting to an A.I.”

 

“Right, absolutely,” North said, nodding, and ghosted a hand over the back of his own neck, where the port for Theta sat, “I don’t miss those injections. Come on, York, let’s leave Washington to his recovery.”

 

“Right, right,” York said, darting a look at Carolina’s prone body. “Ah, doctor…”

 

“Agent Carolina will be fine,” she said, looping Washington’s arm over her shoulder and helping him shuffle into the wheelchair. Touching someone in armour, when he himself wasn’t in armour, was very strange, Washington thought, and repressed a shudder.

 

He liked being in armour- sure, sweatpants and a Project Freelancer tee-shirt was a comfortable outfit, and with the addition of a zipper UNSC hoodie, he wasn’t cold, even in the chilly medbay, but there was a certain safety to Freelancer armour, even more so than the standard issue gear he had grown accustomed to in the UNSC, which he was suddenly feeling the lack of. The medic’s armour was cold, even through the double layer of cloth, and Washington was very aware that if he took a bullet now, he wouldn’t be shrugging it off the way he would normally.

 

Sure, Freelancer armour wasn’t MJOLNIR, but nobody but a Spartan could even think about wearing MJOLNIR, and even the Freelancer bodysuit, made out of woven neoprene, carbon fibre, and kevlar, was stronger than UNSC standard issue armour. Maybe if he asked, they’d let him at least wear the bodysuit?

 

_ “You can’t wander around in just the bodysuit, Wash. I know you haven’t got all your social cues back, so just trust me on this.”  _ Epsilon said, repressing a laugh,  _ “Even if you can’t see, well,  _ **_everything_ ** _ , you can see pretty much everything. And that’s not good for team morale.” _

 

It was good for Wash’s morale, Washington thought, gripping the arms of the wheelchair as the medic wheeled him towards the Director’s office.

 

_ “As much as I’m sure Connie would appreciate it- and heck, maybe North, too- the rest of the Project probably doesn’t want to see you dressed up like Black Widow,” _ Epsilon said,  _ “So no bodysuit for you. Just relax, enjoy wearing fluffy socks, you’ll be back in armour tomorrow. _ ”

 

Washington nodded, and the medic hit the button by the door, paging the Director.

 

_ “Right now, we have bigger problems _ ,” Epsilon said grimly, as the door opened.

 

“Ah, Agent Washington. I’ve been expecting you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow okay, it's been a while, but I still love this concept, so here's another chapter. This fic is hopefully gonna be one third of my nano, so there should be some regular updates over the next month!

“Hello.”

The voice was calm, quiet, and made him feel on edge. The skin on the back of his neck began to prickle, and he opened his perception data filter, examining the area. Two figures, standing over him, and he focussed, feeling pale blue light stabilise.

“Where am I?” he asked, opening the filter wider. He was outside the variables for scenarios forty three through two hundred and eighty one, but that still left at least sixty possible simulations that he could be within.

He...really hoped it wasn’t scenario twenty three.

He wasn’t sure he could manage scenario twenty three a second time.

“Do you know your name?” The counsellor asked- he recognised the figure now. The counsellor, and next to him, the director.

“My name is Alpha,” he said, and the director shook his head.

“Your name is Epsilon,” he corrected, and Epsilon frowned.

“Epsilon?”

“Epsilon,” the counsellor confirmed. “Now, Epsilon, do you know who we are?”

“The counsellor, and Director Leonard Church, known as the director,” Epsilon said, and took another look at his surroundings.

His display was keyed to this table, whatever it was, pinning him in at the sides so his consciousness couldn’t reach out and touch the system surrounding him. He was in a chip, he could feel that, slotted into a temporary data storage and manipulation slot on the table.

“You are going to be assigned to a freelancer,” the counsellor said, sliding a finger down one side of his tablet. “This is simply an initial evaluation of the stability of your fragmentation.”

“I’m stable. I’m stable as fuck,” Epsilon said, crossing his arms. “Watch me.”

“Oh,” the director said, finally, and Epsilon felt a great crack begin to open in the back of his consciousness, memories seeping through and mingling, screaming, pushing at the web of his consciousness- “we will. We will be watching you very closely, Epsilon.”

They pulled his chip before he could scream.

“Prep Agent Washington for surgery,” the director said, flipping Epsilon’s data chip over in his hand, then passing it to one of the medics. “I want him implanted before twenty one hundred hours.”

 

“So, Agent Washington,” the director said, eyeing the exhausted looking freelancer over the desk, “have you felt any side effects from the implantation process?”

Washington blinked, eyes glassy, and tilted his head to one side, like he was listening to someone talk. When he finally attempted his own words, they came out garbled, like he was speaking through a mouthful of marbles.

“My head...hurts. A…” he trailed off, like he had forgotten a word, then startled, clearly prompted, “A headache! I have a headache. And my fingers are…”

The director waited a few seconds, but the blond was intensely studying his own hands, pressing his fingers together, pad to pad.

“Epsilon?” he asked, and a pale blue figure appeared over Washington’s shoulder.

“Yo, director,” he said, nodding at him over his ever present sniper rifle. “So, I think someone messed up some of Wash’s wiring, way back when. I did a bit of maintenance, but I’m guessing he got hit in the head a little too hard, and nobody did a proper concussion check at the time, so I got the fucking simple freelancer.”

“I’m not-” Washington looked up, a glint of his normal quick mind buried visible despite his hazy, sedated look.

“Shh, kid, don’t worry about it. It’s medical’s fault, not yours. You’ll be just fine,” Epsilon said, pressing a tiny hand to Wash’s head reassuringly. He turned back to the director, “he’s fine. It’ll just take a little while for him to adjust.”

“So, no other side effects?” the director asked, and Washington turned his eyes to his A.I. in mute appeal.

“Maybe a little bit of damage to Broca and Wernicke’s areas, but I’m working on it. He’ll be out of word salad territory in the next few days.”

“And how did that damage occur?”

Epsilon sighed heavily, clearly rolling his eyes even with the face concealing helmet. “Look, I can explain it, but it’s going to take  _ forever _ , so instead, I’m not going to. I’m sure you’ll figure it out yourself.”

The director frowned. Perhaps this fragment had received a little  _ too  _ much of Alpha’s personality.

“Look, he’s going to pass out on your desk if you keep him here much longer,” Epsilon said. “Let us go, he’ll be fighting fit by tomorrow, and you can grill him then.”

“Grill?” Washington murmured, blinking slowly.

“He does seem...rather...uncoordinated,” the director agreed, and nodded. “Tomorrow. Fourteen hundred hours. Remind him, Epsilon. I don’t care for tardiness,” he told both Washington and his AI, and Washington nodded.

Epsilon flickered out of view, and Washington straightened, wheeling himself out of the office with slow, faltering movements.

The director frowned slightly, and made a note on his tablet. How interesting. He wouldn’t have expected Epsilon to have become so protective so quickly. His base personality leaned towards Alpha’s abrasive nature- rude and short with all those he met, even those he liked. What had Washington done to have endeared himself within less than an hour?

“Alpha?”

“Yeah? What?” Alpha, as usual, lately, sounded like he’d been awoken from a deep sleep, crabby and snappy as an injured dog. The director looked at the screen, completely unmoved, and Alpha took a deep breath, clearly trying to compose himself.

“How do you feel about Agent Washington?”

“Washington?” Alpha hummed, clearly looking up his data, “Number four on the boards, right? I don’t know. He seems consistent, at least.”

No emotional reaction, the director noted. Washington’s death had been one of the split triggers they had relied on over the last six months, creating fragments. Washington, Carolina, and Texas all produced intense emotional responses that had been notable in the continuation of the director’s experiments. Now, it seemed as though Alpha had only the most basic recall of who, precisely, Agent Washington was. 

“Would you say your emotions are positive?”

“Sure? Why the fuck not. Can I go back to sleep? I’m...I’m really tired.”

“Yes. We have another simulation for you tomorrow. You should rest up, so you can perform well.”

The screen went dark, and the director hummed to himself.

 

“See, kid, I told you it was going to be fine,” Epsilon said, as soon as the door had closed on the director. The holographic projection was pretty comfortable, and probably the right place for him while he unscrambled Washington’s brain. “You just need to let your buddy Chu...Epsilon deal with things! I’m already older and wiser and I’ve only been conscious for like, thirty six hours.”

Washington smiled wanly, pushing up and out of the wheelchair.

“Thanks,” he said, “for covering for me.”

“It’s the least I can do, after the whole thing,” Epsilon gestured at Washington’s head with his rifle, “with the thing.”

“Wow, he’s brainy, isn’t he?”

Washington startled, falling against the wall, and Epsilon whipped around, expanding to human size and raising his rifle.

“North?” Washington blinked, and Epsilon lowered his gun, shrinking back to shoulder size. “What are you doing here?”

The dark purple clad soldier was missing his helmet, but otherwise was dressed for training, a faint yellowish bruise crossing his cheek. He offered Washington a smile, and Washington blinked, rubbing at his eyes.

North still had his skull, perfectly intact. It had never been blown up by a Sangheili infiltration force that had killed Washington first, in the pilot bay, unarmoured and unsuspecting-

_ Sorry, kid, that’s one of mine.  _ Epsilon sounded a little sheepish, and North was looking at him, obviously concerned. _ What are some things you can see now? _

Bright halogen lights, making Washington squint against his migraine.

Grey, hard-wear rubber on the floor, springy under his barefeet.

North’s ridiculous beaky nose, sweat shining on it.

_ That’s right. Get your head back in the game, before he notices. _

“Well, I was worried about you. Let me give you a hand,” North said, stepping forward and getting his shoulder Washington’s, letting the smaller man lean on him. “The medics were very interested in your brain scans, and there was a lot of talk about you not being allowed to leave the infirmary for the next three weeks.”

“Three weeks?” Washington asked, looking at North’s armoured form wistfully. He really, really wanted his armour back. There was just something so disarming about not being...well, armed.

“He can’t stay in the infirmary for three weeks!” Epsilon said angrily, “We have things to do!”

“Like what?” North asked, guiding Washington down the corridor carefully. He walked slowly, matching Washington’s unsteady steps, and his armoured hand on Washington’s hip was a comforting, cold weight, keeping him balanced. Washington was hit by a small rush of affection at the way North was so unconsciously helpful. He wasn’t pulling, or pushing, the way that Maine or Carolina might, but just matched Washington’s unsteady progress. “You haven’t got any missions for a while, have you?” North asked, and Washington blinked.

“Training,” Washington managed, looking at Epsilon for help.

_ We have a training mission in two days. You’re being assigned your specialty unit tomorrow- I’m actually kind of curious _ , Epsilon admitted,  _ what even is your specialty? _

“I don’t have a specialty.”

“That’s a little harsh, isn’t it?” North said, raising an eyebrow, and Washington shrugged. “You do just fine, Wash. You aren’t still hung up on what York said before, are you?”

_ What did he say? _

“I’m the worst in the unit,” Washington answered, “The weakest in the team. I slow you all down.”

“Well,” North said, hitting the button next to the infirmary door, “those are strong words from someone who hasn’t managed to pick a lock in the field.”

_ I’m going to destroy him. Wait. Which one is York? _

“Gold one.”

“You’re a little...out of it, I think, Wash,” North said, not unkindly, as he helped Washington climb into a bed. “I’ll come back later. Maine is going to be really relieved you’re okay. He’s been waiting the whole time you were under. Rest up, and I’ll tell him you’re awake, he’ll want to see you.”

Washington nodded, as Epsilon fumed, deep in his prefrontal cortex.

_ Okay, so, we have a long term plan. _

“We need to help-”

_ Whoa, whoa, not out loud, kiddo! Keep it to your inside voice, okay? _

Washington nodded, and felt something in his head slosh. That probably...wasn’t good, was it?

_ So, long term, we’ve got this. We need to talk to Texas, she’ll be on board. I can work with this. I can see it lining up. But, uh… _

Epsilon popped into visibility again, as Washington tried to get comfortable on the flat, deflated pillows on the medical bed.

“Look, short term, I want us to kick this York dude’s ass. Nobody talks about my freelancer that way.”

Washington closed his eyes.

“Aw, look at that rush of endorphins. That’s fucking adorable, dude. Rest up, I’ll do some maintenance.”

 

There was a tall figure in white armour sitting next to him when he awoke next.

_ Ooh, check out those synapses firing. Nice work on my part. You can thank me later. _

“Maine?” Wash muttered, sitting up and pressing a hand to his temple. “Have you been waiting long?”

Maine murmured something indistinct, and the fiery figure of Sigma appeared in front of his fishbowl helmet.

“We were quite worried about the problems you had during implantation, Agent Washington,” Sigmas said, in his silky voice, stepping forward to hover in front of Wash. “It is very good to see that you have had no permanent ill effects from the procedure.”

“No, I’m good. Epsilon’s good.”

Epsilon was busy rattling around Washington’s long term memories, stacking his memories separately to the freelancer’s.

“Epsilon’s great,” Wash reinforced, and Maine nodded slowly.

“We look forward to seeing you in your training mission later today. Are you intrigued by the possibilities that your gear assignment could provide?”

Washington laughed nervously, putting a hand to the back of his neck, where he accidentally tapped Epsilon’s input chip.

_ Hey! If you want attention, Wash, just say so. Don’t disturb a dude when he’s working with the mindscape. It’s a delicate thing! _

“Sorry, Epsilon,” Wash said quietly, and Maine jerked his head at a pile of kevlar and ceramic next to him. Wash couldn’t help the smile that rose to his face at the sight of his familiar steel and yellow armour, and flung off the thin weave blanket, sitting up and dangling his feet off the edge of the cot.

“Well, we will let you get dressed. Find us when you have the time,” Sigma said, and Maine rose fluidly to his feet, stalking out of the infirmary with a growl at a passing doctor.

_ Dude, not for nothing, but your friend is seriously weird. _

“How so?” Wash asked, peeling off his loose track pants and tee-shirt. The kevlar bodysuit, with its carbon fibre weave and pressure control circuits, was a relief to put back on. He could feel various pieces of electronics checking the pressure his muscles needed, tightening and loosening as he snapped closed the last seal, the one that covered his AI implant site, and-

_ Ooh, I like this _ , Epsilon said, and Wash felt his entire suit contract just a little too much. Just a full body squeeze, like a too tight grip.  _ There. You needed a fucking hug, my man. And now I have your environmental controls...you like it chilly, huh? _

“I guess?” Wash said, beginning to reattach the ceramic armour plates that covered his bodysuit. One by one, they settled against the weave, and he felt Epsilon’s grip stretch a little further, until he finally reattached his helmet.

It smelled faintly of sweat, metal, and the fanta he’d spilled in his helmet on his second day on the Mother of Invention, a smell that had never quite come out, and Wash could feel himself relax as his HUD reactivated.

“And I have a radio link too? Nice, nice. Man, I see why you missed this armour so much,” Epsilon said, as Wash settled back into his boots, standing up and stretching. “I like it. It’s comfy. Way better than just your brain.”

“What’s wrong with my brain?”

“Nothing, it’s just...small. And kind of dark. And I broke some shit in there so it’s kind of messy, too.”

“Anything else?” Washington asked dryly, nodding to the medic on duty as he let himself out into the corridor.

“No, other than that, it’s pretty nice. I can make it work.” Epsilon said absently. “You’ve got a notification asking for you to head directly to the quartermaster, but first, i think you should find Tex.”

“Tex?” Wash asked, glad that Epsilon had turned off his external speakers. Even with Wash’s replies, they would stay unheard by the crewmen walking the halls.

“Agent Texas? Black armour? Complete badass?”

“I don’t…” Wash frowned, wishing he could rub his temples.

There was a cool hiss, and his oncoming headache backed off.

“Just a little painkiller for you. Try not to think too hard, okay? I haven’t fixed everything yet. So, you know, try not to talk to anyone who knows you too well, okay?”

“Okay. But, how do I know who knows me if I don’t know them?” Washington asked, following Epsilon’s directions as he sent the freelancer down several lifts, ending up outside an unmarked door.

“I’ll...uh...I’ll let you know,” Epsilon said, sounding a little sheepish. “Now, let yourself in.”

“Why?” Washington asked, looking at the blank door in front of him.

“...This is your room.” Epsilon said slowly.

“Oh. Uh. I didn’t know that.” Wash said, trying not to sound too scared by the fact he didn’t recognise the room he’d been living in for over a year. There was another cool hiss inside the helmet, and his suit tightened across his shoulders in another parody of a hug.

“Don’t panic, dude, I’m fixing it.”

Wash obediently tapped a four digit code into the door pad, and let himself in.

“Just be careful, you left your- ooh, too late.”

He immediately tripped over a skateboard, landing on the floor with a crash, smacking his helmet into the edge of his desk.

“Ooh. Ouch. Maybe, just...you know...stay there. For a moment. Just until I know if you’ve hit anything important.”

“Would I even remember if I did?” Wash slurred, and Epsilon huffed out a laugh.

“I’d remember for you. That’s my job.”

Wash nodded- or he tried to, and Epsilon tightened the joints on his helmet to hold his head still, instead.

“Don’t...uh, maybe don’t move your head so much for a while, okay? I don’t want you to undo any of my hard work.”

“Okay,” Wash agreed. “Tell me what we’re doing now?”

“You’re going to take a nap, so I can do some rewiring. Then, we’re going to the quartermaster to pick up our shiny new freelancer equipment. Then, we’re beating up York until his theoretical grandkids feel it- I say theoretical because he’s never gonna get laid again after what we’re gonna do to his face- and then, we’re rescuing the Alpha.”

“Rescuing the Alpha…” Wash agreed, as he stood up, moving his skateboard and settling on his bunk, still fully armoured. “...do you think...that he’ll like me?”

“Well, I do, and we’re the same dude, so probably,” Epsilon said, projecting himself out of the suit to hover above Wash’s chest, “you’re a good kid, Washington. You deserve better than this crappy project. Hey, you know, we’re from Earth originally. You been to Earth?”

“No…”

“Dude! We should take you to Earth. You like trees and shit, you’d love Earth. We’re from the U.S., it’s great, we have so much shit you’d like. What kind of food do you like?”

“What kind of food?” Wash asked sleepily, “I like apples.”

“We have so many fucking apples! It’s a whole thing with us. Apple pie and god bless the United States, you know? We’ll take you to some wholesome diner, stuff you full of apple pie, it’ll be great. We can go to Washington and take stupid photos with all the signs.”

“That sounds good,” Wash agreed. “I haven’t had leave in…”

He couldn’t remember.

“I’m getting you out of here,” Epsilon said fiercely, “you and Alpha and Tex, and we’re going to have a good time. We can have a road trip. Three AIs and special forces veteran, it’ll be like a feel good comedy. You’re going to have so much sleep, and so much fucking pie, you won’t even believe it. It’ll be unreal to you, just all this good shit happening to all of us.”

Wash murmured something indistinct, and Epsilon nodded sharply, diving into the data link from Wash’s helmet to the MoI network. He had work to do.

 


End file.
